The Other of One: Book One

By Brian G. Burke

Told in true Seanchaí fashion, The Other of One is an Irish fantasy about a boy named William Muldoon who is summoned to a mythical world underground. The wondrous realm of Lythiann.

There he meets a community of Imps who are seeking refuge from a Wrythunn most foul, Drevol Briggun.

Being the reincarnation of the only other Wrythunn in existence who has the potential to confront Briggun's power, it is up to William to assassinate him. For not only is Lythiann under threat, but his own world is too...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian G. Burke
• Release date: Dec 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311843654

Brian G. Burke

Born in Waterford, Ireland, in 1981, I later moved up to Galway in '88. There I attended St. Pat's primary school before serving my five year sentence at St. Joseph's secondary.I sat my leaving-cert in 1999. Rivetting stuff...enough said! Let's just say, Medicine was well n' truly out the window, as was shoe-shining. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not my dream scenario.I hated school-work you see. Hanging out with my friends in the yard, smoking, was one thing, but when it came to studying..."no thanks, the tv could use some company."In hindsight, this could very well have been my inspiration for William. Thankfully there were no Blackheads or Ms. Cleavers gracing my school halls, though there were some close alternatives...But not all my subjects made me want to rip fistfuls of my hair out and use it for earplugs. English appealed to me very much. Why? Because English involves writing. And the only ingredients writing requires are passion, patience, and imagination. Not foreign languages or algebra (unless you want to include them, if that's your thing)It was my guilty pleasure. I used to love 'pushing the envelope' when essay-day arrived. Not out of some twisted enjoyment for the dark and demented things I sometimes wrote about. It was more a case of me wanting to be more original than everyone else. I was always competitive that way.After my five year stretch, I got out on bail with my mediocre result card, and actually continued to write. This surprised even me. I wrote short stories, the odd poem, and even a few songs. God-awful ones, but I tried it nonetheless. Writing is writing after all - be it a Facebook status or a 1000 page novel.It was only in October 2002, did my little writing hobby really change the course of my life. I'd begun working on a fantasy called 'Kaddareth'. In the meantime I was doing a creative writing course at Kilroy's College, Dublin.I learned a lot during that course. My tutor, Eileen Casey, was especially supportive. A true model for aspiring writers, and she is an extremely talented author and mentor to many, having written such works as 'Snow Shoes' and 'Drinking the colour blue'.However, I will never forget the day I was asked to present them with the opening pages of a sample novel.Thinking nothing of it, I began...I wrote through the night. Red Bull cans scattered about my desk lamp. By the time I was done, I was well beyond the assignment's word allowance. The idea was just too vast for a simple 1,500 word exercise. But I liked what I'd written so much that I didn't want to just send it adrift, nor could I edit it because the details were just too damn essential to the plot. So I contacted the college the following morning and asked if I could exceed it, just this once - with sugar on top. As expected, no such permsission was granted, which was perfectly fair (and to this day I'm glad!)So I put that story to one side, submitted some other 'thrown-together' piece, and straight-away returned to the other.That piece was the beginnings of 'The Other of One'...I have since ditched Kaddareth and have continued on this course; adding on further installments to (what has become known as) 'The Other of One' series as I go. Best of all, it has been so well received! And with a little luck, even more people will get to read it in the future. People like you. I only hope you enjoy it as much, because if you do, then I will have a whole other world waiting for you to explore...

Book preview

The Other of One

Book One

Brian G. Burke

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Brian Burke

License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold; nor can it be given away to other people, unless it is through an official ebook borrowing/lending scheme which has been provided by the ebook distributor. Otherwise, please purchase a copy of this book for the person with whom you wish to share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Evolution. Ever since the beginning of creation there are portions of the physical being which, over the process of time, have adapted to the world around them. Science knows this as evolution.

Like life, there is also a particular art which has its own unique form of evolution. It has manifested itself alongside the coming of man. From its earliest existence, mankind itself has helped this art to evolve, and has aided in its harmonization for the oncoming changes of the world. Throughout this period, it has brought joy and sorrow to our hearts; inspired us when all hope was at a loss, and delivered to us a true means of self-expression.

Subconsciously, it delves deep into our souls and draws out feelings we would otherwise be happy to repress. We have elected its certain styles to represent the very pride and honour of our nations. Theatre has built performances based entirely around its impressions, whilst religion has summoned its purity to express our devotion to worship.

In itself, this ancient art is a living entity, so deeply immortal in its existence that it carries itself through the ages and beyond, never losing any of its potency. Era to era, century upon century.

The most magnificent aspect of all is its ability to makes us come in contact with our emotions, with our true selves. How it bellows so vibrantly during those times of triumph and accomplishment, blending in so seamlessly that all consciousness has no other choice but to give in to it and sail for greater plains. Likewise, it can guise itself so subtly that it's as if it isn't even there.

It is utilized as a symbol of strength, of glory, and of hope. It is one that tells many different tales.

It is the eternal power of Music.

—Brian Burke

Table of Contents

Chapter One - Home is Home

Chapter Two - Bylan's Detention

Chapter Three - Cursed by his Past

Chapter Four - The Sadness

Chapter Five - The Glogish Way

Chapter Six - A Familiar Face

Chapter Seven - Exploring the West

Chapter Eight - Horrors upon the Trail

Chapter Nine - Days into Dark

Chapter Ten - Twisty Cups

Chapter Eleven - Stronghold of Sin

Chapter Twelve - A Stranger's Realm

Chapter Thirteen - Secret of the Banádh

Chapter Fourteen - Insight to the Wrythus

Chapter Fifteen - The Duel

Note to the Reader

- Chapter One -

Home is Home

Something other than he was walking in those woods. A bitter winter's night, beyond the twelfth stroke, is a dangerous time for a travelling cobbler to be wandering those elderly maples alone, regardless of how many times he'd done it before, or how skilful he thought he was with an oaken staff.

Children went missing around there, 'twas said, and who's to say that many an adult had not done so too, under the mistaken belief that they'd skipped town over an unpaid debt or to elope with a mystery lover? Who knows? Maybe they had. This time, however, it was different, and these were the bitter doubts that muddled our cobbler's mind when he heard those strange noises lurking all around him.

First they tramped, if somewhat innocuously. The cobbler was even comforted, initially, to think he wasn't the only one taking the old trail that night. It was only when they galloped, dog-like...no, ox-like...did he turn to survey. The paws stilled. The cobbler grew ever nervous. All the graver still when he peered up into that wintry darkness, then through the trees, to see heavy puffs of frosted air panting back at him. The moon was clear enough to brighten those pale breaths before its nightly robes. Suddenly the shadows stirred, and two white dots stared right into the traveller's squirming soul with a baring of reddened teeth.

The cobbler's last shriek could be heard from the village inn, two and a quarter miles south...

* * *

It was the earliest years of the twentieth century, and the small village of Ballycongraggon lay just off the western headlands of Ireland. Vast changes and some few titles have befallen this village since it was first founded all those years ago. I myself can't help but feel somewhat upset when I think about what it has become this day. What a crying shame that such rustic villages have become less common, and are otherwise being overthrown by horrible, smoggy places of industry and business. Very unfortunate indeed.

For now, I will refrain from discussing that, as it has no immediate relevance to this story which I am about to tell you.

Our tale revolves around a time when the wilds of Ballycongraggon flourished into the very deepest parts of the west. It was a place of special magnificence, a countryside teeming with nature in its fullest blossom. Orchards bloomed out in season, the rich fields were always ripe for the harvest, and the lakes were ever crowded with fish of all kinds. Miles of scattered woodland were nestled amongst the green hills and peaceful meadows. A simple lattice of stone walls and hedgerows then dwelt throughout the entire course of the distant countryside, giving it a truly rural feel.

You could but dream of how stunning it was, had you not known it, with its inlaying streams and magical rivers coursing through the body of land, like they themselves were acting as Ballycongraggon's own little veins of life.

In the north, the mountains towered high, scraping the clouds from the belly of the pure blue sky. When dusk came, their faces would darken behind the sunset to cast evening shadows down amongst the small village below. Then, as night closed in, the blinking stars would be out to bless the land while the moon spreads its teal-blue shimmer far across the hilltops. 'Twas a place that anybody could simply dream of living, in spite of how wild or how meek their personas may be.

Now, the word 'big' doesn't come into my description of Ballycongraggon because it was very, very small, compiled of the residences of only a few dozen families, most of whom lived on the crossroads. The road northward was called Dimpler's Way, which strayed off to the northern part of the country, then to other remote places. The western trail was called just that, 'The Western Trail,' and that led as far as the cliffs, where it stopped to gaze over the boundlessness of the perfect, blue sea. To the east was Baylor's Bothaireen, which travelled east after the big green hill, right past the last lake cottage. Finally, to the south, Old Heral's Walk wandered on, long past Fisher's Lake, and then eventually into Doolin. All of these roads met up perfectly in the midst of the cobbled town square of Ballycongraggon, right up to the stone monument itself, which was set in the exact heart of the town; a wonderfully crafted Celtic cross, sparsely garbed by ages of moss and ivy as it stood proudly upon a stepped pedestal.

Within this cosy little settlement of Ballycongraggon there lived an ever so small community of hearty townsfolk. Chiefly fishermen and farmers, they ambled around mostly by cart, High-Nelly, or by foot. One must bear in mind that the invention called the motorcar was a sight seldom seen, except for in the bigger cities of distant lands. And even then it was just the wealthier people who had the luxury of them. Such gadgets were never for the likes of the lucid Irish people. Their lives were simple, and they preferred it that way.

Everybody in the village knew each other very well, and coming into the later months, there was always a merry feeling about. All Hallows' Eve was always an especially anticipated occasion. Everyone would muster in the nearby fields and drink the finest ale, tell old stories, and dance around the blazing campfires. Merry music played, with sparks and laughter drifting joyously into the night. Children ran about all dressed up as different things and, when they went to bed, the revelries of the grown-ups would linger on until early the next morning.

Ballycongraggon was very famous for its storytellers, it so happens. Come the night before All Hallows' Eve, it was tradition for the families to congregate in each other's houses to hear the chilling ghost stories told by candlelight.

Well, those stories frightened the children to bits, so they did. But they were just tales, for the most part, so everyone was quite safe.

But Ballycongraggon has one particular legend of its own, which I think you should know about. 'Tis a blood-curdling myth of ghastly kidnappers, dark legends of a mysterious brotherhood who had terrible dealings far off in the north. Folk called them The Shadow's Guild. People used to say that the leader of this fraternity was a mean old man, clad entirely in black, with a frighteningly hideous porcelain mask which guised his true self. He was supposed a reclusive sort, from what the locals guessed. Nor did anybody ever learn his true name. They simply called him Furìn the Vile, as that name possessed fiendishly miserable qualities. It was also simple enough to stick in the children's minds and make them shudder anytime they heard it.

As the story goes, every All Hallows' Eve this evil brotherhood would creep out in the dead of night to snatch all of the newborn children from under their parents' noses, then disappear without a trace. It was suggested that they did this as a warning to those who dared to oppose them, whilst others said that they did it with the intentions of eventually decreasing the population, and extinguishing any chances of rebellious legacies. Then, when the time was right, they'd overrun the village and claim it as their own. But as I said, those were just stories...

All the same, on occasion you might still hear the people of villages alike, telling some of the bolder children to be aware of the Guild, should their tomfoolery ever get too much.

Don't you be gettin' up ta no mischief! they'd say, "Or the Shadows will have their eyes on you! Snatch you up before you could say boo!"

This may have worked on some of the younger children, but the older ones were well aware that there was very little truth behind the stories, if any. Still everyone, adults and all, enjoyed listening to these tales upon a crisp Hallows' eve, when the creatures were out and night had closed in. Without a yarn or two it just wouldn't have been the same, what with it being tradition and all; everyone huddled up, holding their piping hot mugs of sweet tea and warm lemonade as the stories unfurled.

So, now that you've gotten to know the village a little better, I think we should talk a little bit about the adventurer of this story. Adventurer? Now that's a title that this person would never have imagined being branded with. Not in all of his wildest and most vivid of dreams. And there really is much to tell...

Away eastward, over the big green hill, through the Elder-grove wood and past the old moor, lay a splendid, sparkling lake where, at its edge, a tiny cottage hid. Charming as one might imagine, it was small and white, with a thatched roof and a tiny stone wall running all around it. Out front a quaint little garden grew, blooming with winter flowers. There it sat, all alone, peacefully away from the busyness of the village.

Within that cottage there lived a young mother and her son. Her name was Deirdre Muldoon, and her young, thirteen-year-old lad was called William.

They weren't the wealthiest family in the town. To tell the truth, they weren't well-to-do at all. William's mother kept food on the table and clothes on their backs by not working just one job but two jobs. During the day she worked quite contentedly with her best friend, Mary, as a washerwoman. Down by Donnelly's stream was where they spent most of their days, and it was tough labour, to say the least. But they had a giggle to themselves as the days drew on, for big Mary was the bubbly, good-natured sort, who often coaxed out Deirdre's fine spirit with her clever antics and sayings.

At night, Deirdre was a barmaid in the local inn, The Ghost n' Calf. Four nights of the week she toiled in that inn, and while it may not have been quite as taxing as laundering, it remained very diligent and exhausting work. Poor Deirdre was always on her feet, and constantly kept going.

Sometimes William would drop by the inn for a few minutes on his way home. He always found it so amusing to watch the drunk folks carrying on, especially those who were trying to court. Funnily enough, the real fools (as he so put it) were always the ones who ended up walking out with the prettiest girls. William deemed this rather strange, as they were always acting like such toads towards them. Then again, what did he know about any of that stuff really? Perhaps it was what those ladies were after.

Aside from all that hustle 'n' bustle, Deirdre was a caring, kind-hearted mother, who loved William beyond all boundaries. She always tried her very best to put him before all else in her otherwise busy life.

As for Conor Muldoon, William's father, he moved around quite a lot on business as a travelling cobbler. Whenever he returned from a trip he would never fail to bring home a bunch of the nicest flowers for Deirdre, along with a picture book of some sort for William, even though they couldn't really afford it. Deirdre often teased him about this, saying he must've been up to no good on the road, and that it was a gesture of guilt. But he knew she was only messing, so it was no harm done. Besides, he loved his wife and only son very much.

One night years ago, in midwinter, Conor had picked up and left on business, and was never heard from again. His hat and carry-case were found in a tatter, speckled in blood, just north of Ballycongraggon. They were tangled in the branches of a gooseberry bush just shy of a maple wood near Dimpler's way. William was little more than a toddler when it happened. Such a spell ago that he could barely remember. As for Deirdre, she could recall it painfully well, and was absolutely heartbroken because of it.

She endured many sleepless nights and searched for many months, with the help of some close friends, for her lost husband. Not before long, she fell ill from stress, thus stirring some concern amongst the villagers.

One grey afternoon, a small group of friends came to her house, all with their caps in hand. They pleaded with her, for the sake of her health and family, to give up her search. Eventually, exhausted as she was, she had no choice but to do just that, for she came to understand that she'd been neglecting William (unintentionally, you realise), and she didn't want to abandon him any longer.

Alas, much to the Muldoon's dismay, Conor was declared 'at rest;' a hardship which fell heavily upon everyone. Neither Deirdre nor William had ever forgotten Conor's love. Nor did they let their love for him subside. But the boy...he never cried.

A story to thrum the heartstrings, no doubt. Specially when we consider how much we want our lives to turn out like those faerie tales of old, all perfect and cheery, William included. But the truth is, buried beneath the innocence of the world, no matter how much of it there is, no matter how pure it may be, reality will ever lurk. There is no escaping it. And where there is that, there is cruelty. But in cruelty, a pearl of hope can often grow.

The only possessions left to remember Conor by were some clothes, his rocking chair by the fire, his second pipe, and a set of nickel-plated Schofield pistols which he kept in a wooden case on top of his wardrobe. As a precaution he kept it locked up, lest William should ever sniff them out, which he did, once or twice, without his father knowing. He even fired one of them once; straight through the crotch of a pair of long johns on his neighbour's clothesline, which William never owned up to.

Those pistols were very precious to Conor, having belonged to his own father before him, who had brought them back from America when he was there all those years ago in 1880. The grips were of rosewood, while the guns themselves were customized to fire automatically, round after round, due to a small coiling mechanism mounted on the side, beneath the hammer. It was because of this feature that they were considered a set of a kind, and worth a handsome sum of money. Given their sentiment, there was no chance Deirdre would ever consider such a greedy notion. That's not to say she relished the idea of having such dangerous items laying about the house, either. It was just the idea of knowing that they were held so dear by Conor, in memory of his own father, that she never wanted to let them out of her family. Therefore, selling them was simply not up for debate. Not even if they were forced to eat muck, and shelter out in the woods.

Despite his tough past, William was a relatively happy and curious little rascal and, moreover, quite charming at times. In some ways he was also very intelligent, and very well-spoken, too...when he felt the need to do so, that is. A scrawny enough lad he was; not very tall, with longish brown hair and friendly blue eyes. He had an unusual attitude about him too, so you know.

You see, he was reasonably confident in whatever he did (apart from his studies, which I will get to later), but he never cared much for the likes of stature or popularity. Not that the rest of the people knew of, at least. This was considered quite odd, because one could only assume that any form of independence at such a young age, whether it be innocent or intended, would naturally come package 'n' parcel with some form of leadership qualities. Not with William, I'll have you know. He kept to himself mostly, and he preferred it so. Always did.

Young Muldoon did have some friends of his own age but no real friends, as far as he knew. Just a few quiet chaps to make small talk and trade the odd conker with at school. When it came to the livelier lads, he felt like something of an outsider, because they were more inclined to get along better in their own circles than with him. Not in a cold way, exactly. Not when it came to him, at least, as he was a likeable chap, and they often told him so. It's just...they had their own little cliques, which was fair enough, seeing as he didn't really care about trying to fit in anyhow. Nor were any of the other things terribly important to him, such as following the more popular lads around just because it was what the less popular ones used to do. He couldn't help feeling that there was a bit of disloyalty amongst that sort in particular. They were ever gossiping behind each other's backs, trying to gain the favouritism of those whom they idolized the most, and so on. Sheep, with no minds of their own. Judgmental and often presumptive. Quick to spread a rumour without trial. That sort. It was all very two-faced and silly, he thought. One second they'd be slagging some poor fellow off behind his back or dropping snide remarks, then, not two minutes later, they'd be off being all pally with him like never a bad word was said. Unfair carry on, to put it mildly. Especially when they weren't around to defend themselves. And the most amusing part of this for William—if any portion could indeed be deemed as 'amusing'—was how they always thought they were getting away with it. Maybe they were, with some. But not with young Muldoon, no. He could always see through their bitter tricks like old net curtains.

When it came to William himself, he was mostly very loyal, very courteous, generous, and very set in his ways. He treated everyone exactly the way they deserved to be treated. It was because of this that he didn't think he would've been cut out for that toadyish way of life. It just wasn't for him. If it was the other children's wont, then so be it. 'Off with them,' that was his attitude. So long as it didn't rub off on him...

Whenever they went off about their sports and marbles, he went off about his reading and, sometimes, daydreaming. He needed to believe, young William, for sanity's sake, that there was more to life than just dribbling a ball or flicking glass pebbles about. Indeed, something was missing in his life. Purpose...

Day to day he otherwise loved his own little comforting pleasures. Be it going for a stroll with the farmer's dogs, playing slingshot (which he was terribly accurate at, by the way), or else relaxing with a tasty jar of buttermilk. He simply adored his own company above any which could be granted by his peers, because again, he was left to his own thoughts. However, if any task ever called for his absolute attention, he would be all over it like bees to honey.

He used to love exploring strange places, too. Most of the time he ended up getting into all sorts of trouble with the older folk, but it was all very harmless. The villagers adored him, don't you know, despite his boyish antics. The old ladies even had a persistent habit of pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair whenever they saw him. He often got a farthing, too, for carrying their groceries to their houses and feeding their animals. William certainly would've done it for free, because it gave him a chance to get out and about, but they insisted on it nonetheless.

Another of his most favourite pastimes was getting up before the birds to feel the westerly winds blowing in from the ocean. He could enjoy the winds best upon the crest of the big green hill near the town. A fine stroll in itself, especially at that time of the morn, but worth it. He'd just sit there, waiting. Then, before long, the smell of fresh heather would carry through the westerly breeze, right up into his nostrils. William treasured that feeling most. Its mild sensation and gentle aroma whisked his mind off into different worlds and, like clockwork, it would tell him that the sun was about to rise behind him. He would then turn eastward to see the birds taking off from the forest, after which he'd witness the sun rising through the trees. This was a sight he deemed ever so free and wonderful, nor did it ever lose its novelty.

Every one of these little pleasures were all well and good. But as far back as he could recall, nothing—and I mean nothing—enthralled William more than the reading of Irish lore, and the sound of good music. Every day after school he would be first out of the classroom and through the playground gate. He knew the faster he got home, the sooner it would be that he could start reading about his favourite stories (the tales of Cùchulainn, and the Fianna, were two of his favourites).

To get home, he took this special shortcut which he'd discovered through his explorations. He'd dash home through it as fast as he could; sometimes with his jacket only half on over one shoulder. He never took much care, nor did it really bother him. His bag was always left open, and it bounced up and down, with pencils and erasers flying out here and there. The young fellow usually happened upon items which he had dropped the previous day, which he considered a lucky omen.

Be sure to close that bag o' yours before you come home! his mother used to say. "And don't run so fast, William Muldoon! I can't afford to be buying you new toppers and pencils every day o' the week! It'd almost be cheaper to have aul' Mattie's jarvey pick you up outside the school every day. And you know how fond o' counting the shillings he is! Sense the tone, lad!"

It wasn't much of a scolding, because she couldn't help but smile whenever she said it.

As was to be expected, William promised her every day that he would take more care. But, time after time, he would do the exact same thing: The bell would ring, he'd spring out from his desk, dart across the yard, and dash off onto that old shortcut trail, running faster than ever he could. Down the big green hill he'd go, past Mr. O'Connell's field, over the old moor, and then through the Elder-grove. He simply couldn't contain his excitement...he had to run.

Whenever he got tired of reading—which was seldom—he would head over to his neighbour, Mr. O'Connell, and listen to the phonograph. The farmer had the only one in the village, and it was quite an attraction to the other locals if there was ever a party on. Mr. O'Connell didn't mind folks listening to it, though, because he was a cheerful man, and one of William's closest friends, too.

His music collection was absolutely massive; with his little living room crammed with shelf upon shelf of records. He had all of the greats, and every piece that was ever composed by them. There was Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Vivaldi, Haydn, Chopin, and many, many other funny names in that collection. It was very impressive to see.

William could lose himself for hours in their music, and often he did just that, pondering the tales behind the symphonies. Each and every time, those same pieces had different stories to tell, depending on William's mood that day. His mind would simply drift away until his consciousness eventually carried him back to the falling of twilight and a grumbling belly, then off home he'd trot for a feed and a fine rest.

However...

One day something happened to William on that homeward trail. Something so unexpected and so impossibly wonderful that even he himself could hardly believe it.

So now, if you're sitting comfortably, all settled in your favourite chair, let me tell you what happened to our young William Muldoon.

- Chapter Two -

Bylan's Detention

The church bells chimed on a dull Friday's eve in October. It was icy and brisk, and a thick blanket of mist lingered over the hills of the old countryside. Just beyond the cobbled streets of the town square was the old school.

Of gothic structure, it bore cold, granite brick. The grounds were of two wooden prefabs with the tiny chapel across the yard. It was named St. Mathew's School for Boys, and our young William had just finished talking to Mrs McGrainne and was on his way to a dreadfully boring Latin lesson.

Mrs McGrainne was William's history teacher, and was his most favourite teacher at that. A thoughtful old woman with frizzy grey hair and glasses as thick as jam jars, she always told the most amazing stories of warriors and kings; of great creatures and magical lands. The children would sit there, chins plonked on their arms, as quiet as mice as she told her tales. And when she finished, they'd all yawn and stretch, happy and fulfilled.

That morning, she'd lent William one of her old books. It was blandly named, Irish Myths and Folklore, within which was a story about an evil imp known as the Pooka.

(Now, you could also call them 'Faeries,' but that often leads to the misconception of tiny critters sporting spangled wings, fluttering about the place all happy and nice, whereas that isn't necessarily always the case. Not with the Faeries of Ireland, at least, the likes of whom come in many different shapes; some you would never deem likely. For the sake of fallacy, we will refer to them by their other common title, which is imp, because this tends to darken the image that one might have, and rightly so.)

Incidentally, they happened to be learning about this particular imp in class that same day, and William had immediately taken a keen interest in it. This was how the book described him:

"Cold hearted and nothing on his mind other than an undiluted lust for chaos, the Pooka was the most feared imp in all of ancient Ireland.

As well as his fear-mongering, he has been known to feed upon the souls of those who were once good, invading them and spellbinding them through the use of his demonic minions, spirits and devils, who serve their master well. These evil ones offered their entranced hosts up to him freely; sometimes even as sustenance, should he ever crave it, which was, unfortunately, all too often.

Otherwise their job was to transport the Pooka, from place to place as he saw fit, like work horses, and often in a conveyance of his own liking, be it a carriage or a trap, boat or winged, depending entirely upon his whim.

This fiend could make your hair turn white and your skin come alive with goose bumps had you seen him. Thank your lucky stars that that day will never come..."

Now you can see why William was so enthralled by this character, like any other lad his age would be.

In any case, William already had that book somewhere in his collection, although he hadn't previously read it, as he had so many others to get through. His 'pile of shame,' he called it. And yet he didn't wish to seem uncouth by declining his teacher's kind gesture, either. Graciously he accepted her token with a thanks and a smile.

Little William was never much good at the other stuff. To be honest, he despised school otherwise. He never saw himself amounting to much, you see. Maybe working for a farmer, or for the local greengrocer; that would see him through life just grand until something better comes along, he thought. And as far as he was concerned, anything would be better than school. His skin simply crawled at the idea of equations and timetables, or adjectives and politics.

The sciences, I suppose, proved something of interest to William, on occasion. A crutch, so to speak. Only because he had a burning disliking towards feeling cheated, in that he was forever itching to ask why there was always a huge deal of contrast between his scientific studies and the religious studies which he'd sat through during his junior years at that same school. Which was it? he pondered. Which came first? God? Or was it science? Does heaven even exist at all? Who, or what, really created space 'n' that? He was a curious chap, but it was more a one-sided curiosity. He had a mistrust in religion, which likely had more to do with his father's unjustly death than he would otherwise care to admit. In the end, he just kept his taboo theories to himself, lest news should travel home and offend his dear mother, who was already giving him a reasonably devout upbringing as it was. Asking such heathenish questions in an esteemed Catholic school like St. Mathew's would have only resulted in one consequence anyhow; punishment. So where was the point in raising his hand when he knew he wasn't going to get an answer, just a sound thrashing? "Humph, a holy school named St. Mathew's that teaches its pupils about the science of all things. Just odd!" he often remarked, fairly pleased at himself for having picked up on it when nobody else had.

In all, he would've been perfectly content to just go in for Mrs. McGrainne's class and be on his merry way.

He tried that once; to skip off. The pup. Only to be caught by the scruff of the neck before he could even reach the front gate. Caught by 'Old Misery-Guts' himself...Mr. Bylan Blackhead.

Blackhead was William's maths professor, and also the vice principal at St. Mathew's. To this day, I have never heard of such a horrible-sounding teacher.

His teeth were few and stained brown from smoking his long black pipe, and his fingers were dirty and thin. You couldn't even begin to imagine the feeling of these cold, bony digits grabbing your neck when you did not expect it. Nasty. Very nasty indeed. A highbrow yet lonesome individual, he had a cruel manner nobody honestly cared for. Most of the other teachers even dreaded his presence, bar Ms. Cleaver, who was just as dreadful, if not worse. Lucky enough for William, he didn't have her for any of his classes.

Blackhead's face was scrawny and pale, with the baggy sacks under his eyes stretching down to the very length of his thin, aquiline nose. To top it all off, his oily, black hair was slicked back in such a way that it gave the impression of two shadowy horns poking out the rear of his head. But the worst thing about him was this long, unsharpened pencil which he carried around. I wish I could say that he used it for its intended purpose, but unfortunately, his students were not that lucky. His 'friend,' he used to call it, and he was never afraid to clatter you over the knuckles with it if you ever stepped out of line. And he would continue to whack and slap you with it until the pencil was stained red, and your bloodied hands shaking. Yes, Old Bylan was the bane of William's life for many a year in that school. Granted, that's slightly beside the point for now.

So, after a laborious and quite dreary afternoon of Latin, the five o'clock bell finally rang. Breathing a sigh of delight, William jumped from his seat and legged it out of the classroom door. He just couldn't wait to get home and out of that boring old uniform—a loose pair of grey socks, old brown brogues, long baggy shorts in an awfully dull shade of grey, and a wrinkled old jumper with a fat, striped tie. He never even gave his teacher (Ms. Leary, his Latin teacher) the chance to give out the homework for that weekend. But she yelled it after him regardless, with a wave of her fist as his footsteps disappeared down the long corridor.

"Read Chapter Eighteen, and do questions one to thirty at the end! And don't run out o' my class like that again, ya little maggot, or there'll be lines! Lots o' them!"

Not taking a blind bit of notice, William rushed through the large green doors of the main hall and darted across the playground as fast as his legs would go.

On the grounds ahead of him, near the old school chapel, was a small gathering of pigeons. They were feeding upon crumbs and bits of loose bread which had strayed from the litter collection at lunch time. Yelling out, William dashed through them, making them flap into the air in every direction; releasing a bombardment of crumbs and droppings to the tarmac below. He laughed heartily as he watched them taking to the steeple, when suddenly, he heard a shuddering, throat-clasping scream.

What do you think you're doing?! was shouted from a prefab door across the way.

Yes, that's right. It was Old Misery-Guts himself, standing there in his thin black suit, with a pointer in hand. William stuck like a fly in glue when he heard him. He didn't even have to look to know who it was, for he knew that foul voice only too well.

"I said, what are you doing?!" demanded Mr. Blackhead a second time, smacking the pointer off the prefab wall with a muscle-tightening crack.

William threw his eyes upward with a silent sigh. He was indeed fully aware of what was on Blackhead's mind, thus bracing himself for the lecture which he was undoubtedly about to receive.

Did you not hear me, boy?! growled Misery-Guts, who was now becoming very agitated and rather purple for his ghostly complexion.

Stomping out from the door, he made for the lad, and with every step of his old black brogues it tore a splint in William's nerves. Any boy at St. Mathew's, beefy or frail, would have cringed at the familiarity of that very sound. Not just he...

Yes, sir? William asked, fixing himself upright.

Don't you 'Yes, sir' me! You have quite the habit of leaving class before the other boys, don't you? Don't think I haven't noticed, because I have! Do you think you are more important than everybody else in this school that you always have to be the first to leave?!

At a loss for words, William turned his eyes downward. What was the point in him saying anything really? Blackhead was never very fond of him, don't you know. Nor was William extremely fond of Blackhead. And yet he never made his feelings known, and he always did as Misery-Guts asked, never once spitting out complaint.

Still, the revolting old blight always tried his hardest to mock and berate the poor little fellow, endeavouring to make his life harder than it already was. He was a cruel piece of work, I can tell you.

Should I go back to class, sir? William asked, trying to cooperate.

Don't you pull that innocent little student routine with me! I can see right through you! snapped Blackhead, with a string of dribble oozing down his chin. Though I am hardly surprised! One could only expect this from someone who was raised by such an incompetent, sorry state of a woman...trying to get your own way all the time! No respect for those who rightly deserve it!

William looked up at Mr. Blackhead, who was now standing skinny and tall before him. It upset him immensely to think that someone so much older than he, and supposedly more mature, could take such an unfair stab at somebody's family. Contrary to that, it was also making him very angry, although he managed to repress it.

Oh, yesss! hissed Misery-Guts, displaying a grim smirk.

He saw how his little mind games were having an effect on William, so he continued to twist the dagger.

"I have seen her working in that establishment late at night, on my walks home. All the men in there, ogling at her! And she does nothing more but encourage their filthy thoughts! She is scum-ridden filth in my opinion! No more than yourself! Such a shame your father had to leave. Maybe he could have put some proper manners in you! On second thought, maybe he is better off six...feet...under! Who'd want an embarrassment of a son like you, anyway!"

William could hear his teeth grinding through his ears and his fists trembled tightly, clasping with the desire for one swift thump straight into Blackhead's stupid eye. Yet he still dared not look at him. For, despite his inner rage, he could also feel his lip quivering and his eyes glazing.

Well?! barked Mr. Blackhead. Do you not have something to say for yourself?

The bell rang, sir. I thought class had ended—

NO BACKCHAT! screamed Mr. Blackhead, bending over to meet William eye to eye. "You know per-fect-ly well that home assignments are given out after the bell rings, so don't give me that codswallop!"

Then William implored, I'm so sorry, sir. It won't happen again. I promise!

Oh, I know it won't. Because if it does, I will be sure you get exactly what is coming to you! Do I make myself per-fect-ly clear?!

Reaching inside his breast pocket, Blackhead flicked out his long, orange pencil. It was all twisted and chewed. He then pressed it hard against the end of William's nose.

Yes, sir! Sorry, sir! the lad said apologetically.

Holding his breath, he hoped that Blackhead would leave it at that and just get lost. After all, the last thing William wanted to do was get cross and say something foolish. That would've only meant punishment, leading to nothing other than his poor mother's disappointment, which was not what he wanted at all. She had enough to deal with without being dragged in for a meeting with Blackhead over